


The Valley of the Moon

by lessercactus



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-typical Temporary Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi's Poetry, Interfaith Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Quotation of Rumi's Masnavi, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Theological Arguments, also dying of thirst metaphorically, background andy/quynh, dying of thirst, gay confusion, potentially sacreligious, to-be-resolved sexual tension, transitioning from organized religion to a personal understanding of faith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lessercactus/pseuds/lessercactus
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolo leave the road and travel into the desert, where many things are revealed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 13
Kudos: 97





	The Valley of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Yusuf recites is called “To Him is our return”. I have tried to source a reliable translation, I went with this one: http://www.dar-al-masnavi.org/n-III-3901.html. In so doing I learned a lot about the western bastardization of Rumi, basically if you read anything “translated” by Coleman Barks it’s garbage. Rumi is a Sufi mystic and not a secular new age beat poet. 
> 
> This fic is about many things but one of them is the transition from being a dutiful member of an organized religion to someone whose understanding of their faith is more personally and experientially determined. The question for these two at this time I think is not “What does my religion *really* say about God, infidelity, sodomy, etc?” but “Putting together the doctrine and my own experiences, what do *I* believe?” If this is not to your taste please do not read it. 
> 
> Also what fucking color ARE luca marinelli’s eyes though? I clock them as grey blue and green depending on the light. Oh well.

The year is 1281, and the Mongols are pressing their advantage down into the Levant. Yusuf suggests that the pair of them head south, towards the mountain pass of Ayla, and Nicolo agrees, accustomed now to following. But the road is crowded with too many people who seem to have the same idea, and no matter their garb, Nicolo’s grey-green seafoam eyes attract attention. This is to say nothing of his hair, which grows ever blonder in the sun, and the way he still speaks Arabic like a foreigner even after more than a hundred years of trying. There is nowhere they can go where the two of them together will not cut a strange figure at the best of times, and travelers meet with unfriendly eyes on the road in times of war. 

In their first week on the road south, they spend more time fending off theft and murder in the dead of night than they do sleeping. The third time it happens, Yusuf changes their strategy and suggests that they leave the road altogether and travel east for a time, taking their chances in the desert before turning south again. Nodding slowly, again Nicolo agrees. 

***

The desert is so quiet that it takes both of them days to get used to it after the din of the road. A hush falls over them after that, and they themselves speak very little. After a while they begin to notice plants, then insects, then animals. Now that they are a few days’ walk east, they are heading south again. 

If neither of them speaks as they walk, the beating wings of the tiny birds that sometimes pass through the small copses of scrub trees become loud to their ears, and Nicolo jerks his head up in amazement when one or two fly overhead. His eyes follow them as they swoop and rise through the morning air, until they are out of sight. When he looks away, he sees Yusuf watching him and the birds and smiling, and he smiles back. 

“It’s beautiful here,” Nicolo says softly at one point, looking around as they stop to drink from their waterskins. 

They both breathe easier traveling off the road, but Nicolo especially seems to come into his own, even though Yusuf is more familiar with the terrain. He is also more familiar with the reality of the situation. The desert is not barren and empty of people any more than it is empty of trees and insects. They have not yet run into any of the clans here yet, but it is only a matter of time. They will not be alone with the birds forever. 

“We still have to tread lightly,” Yusuf says reluctantly, feeling the need to voice a reminder. “The clans here are peaceful towards strangers I think, maybe even friendly, but they will want to know what our purpose is in these lands if we meet them.” 

“And what will we tell them? What is our purpose out here in the desert, so far from the road?” Nicolo asks, a wry little half smile on his face. 

Yusuf laughs, finding the light mood infectious, and says “You tell me, foreigner.” 

“We are both foreigners here, really,” Nicolo counters. 

“And yet one of us speaks the language so much better than the other one,” Yusuf returns, enunciating with a little more flourish just because he can. 

“True, true,” Nicolo holds up his hands, smiling even more now. “But I will tell you something: even in the desert, I will still be the better hunter.” 

This is true — his sight is keener, his aim truer at distance. He proves it again when they stop for the evening, catching two scrub hares, skinning them and making a small fire to cook them on. He’s at a loss in so many other areas in this land. It goes deeper than language, than customs, than navigating by landmarks. It seems that as soon as he gets comfortable, or the two of them fall into a rhythm, the ground shifts beneath their feet and they have to find their way again. It has been decades now of Nicolo yielding to Yusuf’s greater knowledge of this part of the world, gratefully accepting his guidance and companionship. Yusuf stays with him even though they both know Nicolo slows him down. Nicolo still cannot yet bring himself to say thank you. He wants to say it, but the words always die in his throat. The hares will have to do. 

***

At first they are still close enough to the road that they decide to set a watch. They make an open tent using an old goathair blanket propped up on sticks, and take turns to switch off who watches first. But they are both exhausted, and find it hard to stay awake alone in the night. It has only been a few days, but it feels like it has been a long time since they slept side by side. Something nameless between them itches with a sense of loss, though neither of them knows what it means. 

After three nights pass without incident, the following morning Nicolo tentatively wonders aloud whether the watch is still necessary. 

“Hm,” Yusuf considers it, reflexively scanning the horizon. “Maybe not…” He looks unsure. 

They walk on in silence. Late in the afternoon they find a rocky outcrop atop a bluff that would make a remarkably sheltered sleeping location, and that brings the matter to a head. 

“I think we can risk it,” Nicolo argues, tired of being tired. 

“You always think that,” Yusuf observes, “But this time, maybe… ” he trails off, looking around, nodding a little, noticeably softening to the idea.

“I am not sleeping only four hours a night for the rest of eternity,” Nicolo says with an air of finality, making Yusuf huff out a laugh. 

“Yes, fine, alright,” he says, sounding as tired as Nicolo feels. They decide to pitch the tent in the farthest corner, and the spot really is excellent, almost entirely protected from every angle except the south. Yusuf arranges the tent laterally to the rock, a decision that means that one of them would be more exposed. Nicolo frowns when he sees what is happening. 

“I think it makes more sense to pitch it at an angle, to sleep back to back with both our heads to the rock” he says, shading his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. 

“Ordinarily, yes. But it makes more sense for one of us to sleep more exposed. If we are ambushed, it is better that they can reach and kill only one of us, and the other can handle the situation,” he says. 

Nicolo chews his lower lip in thought, straining to remember if they have had this argument before, and how it went, but he is very tired. And it has been a very long time since the two of them slept out in the open. 

“Fine,” he says, figuring Yusuf knows better on this front. “It does make sense.” 

But later that evening, when Yusuf starts to position his belongings further towards the southern side of the tent, Nicolo stops short. 

“I should sleep on the exposed side,” he says, confused. 

“No.” Yusuf says, not even looking up from what he’s doing. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolo says, immediately exasperated, pulling him up, “stop, listen to me.” 

“I can better protect you than you can protect me here,” Yusuf says.

“Oh, absolutely, yes, very clever, it’s true —“ Nicolo says, gesticulating extravagantly, “So which of us is going to handle the situation better if we get attacked? Who can negotiate with the locals better? Which of us knows the customs, the terrain? It is you, unquestionably. So you are the one who needs to stay alive, idiot. What should I do if you die, while I wait for you to come back to life? Wave your kufiya like a flag of surrender?” 

Yusuf looks taken aback, almost surprised. “I don’t think…” he begins, but he trails off, doubtful, thinking it over. 

“You get us through the desert,” Nicolo says, tapping Yusuf’s chest with his index finger, “I will handle getting stuck full of arrows.” 

Yusuf almost laughs at how ridiculous that sounds, and he feels thrown for a moment, shaking his head, trying to regain his footing in the conversation, but Nicolo can see him doing it and cuts him off — “Don’t argue with me.” Nicolo bends down and starts repositioning their belongings so that he, rather than Yusuf, will take the southern side. 

Yusuf stands watching him, wondering how he lost control of the situation, how he can be suddenly wrong-footed by the protection Nicolo seeks to offer him. He feels as poleaxed as Nicolo looks every time Yusuf tries to protect him, or shows him kindness. It happens more and more these days, but Yusuf is always struck anew by how strange and good it is, how much he himself wants to push it further every time. He even surprises himself sometimes, and he thinks he reads the same experience on Nicolo's face more often than not in these moments. 

"You are thinking very loudly," Nicolo informs him, straightening up. 

"Whose fault is that?" Yusuf laughs. "Fine, let me give you a reprieve -- I'll go and see what I can do about firewood."

***

That night, the dreams catch up with them. The two figures, two women but tall and strong and fiercer than any warriors that Yusuf and Nicolo have ever known, speaking languages neither of them can begin to understand. They do not know what the dreams mean, nor how they know that these women are real when they are dreaming them. This time, the dream only comes for Yusuf, and he wakes with a shattering gasp, jolting Nicolo out of sleep beside him, and they reach for each other as they do only after they dream or die. 

“What was it, what was it?” Nicolo asks, running his hands down Yusuf’s trembling arms, trying to still him or soothe him or some combination of the two. 

“The two of them are moving, same direction as the Khan moves,” Yusuf says, sweating, breathing hard. 

“This way?” Nicolo’s eyes widen. 

“This way,” Yusuf confirms grimly. 

“Do you think they are looking for us? Do you think they mean us any harm?” Nicolo asks for the thousandth time, and Yusuf shakes his head, meaning both no and I don’t know at the same time. 

“They’re still far away. They have just reached Aleppo, I think. I can’t be sure. I only saw flashes.” Yusuf puts his head in his hands and groans in frustration and misery.

“Drink,” Nicolo says, passing Yusuf his water skein, which he takes up gratefully. Yusuf’s breathing is slowly returning to normal. There is nothing more to say, but Nicolo wishes he could say something more anyway. They sit together in silence. 

After a little while, Nicolo has a sudden urge to touch Yusuf again, to smooth down Yusuf’s hair, or to cup his face and murmur something comforting and kind. Instead he draws his hands away and hunches into himself. These urges are growing more frequent. Nicolo does not trust himself to discern what he should do, and never has. He lies back down and says awkwardly that they should get some rest, and he does not know why he feels guilty at the confusion he sees in Yusuf’s eyes.

***

The next morning they realize the water is beginning to run low. After some discussion, they veer off course and begin tracking a dry river bed that runs further east, hoping to find a spring at the source. They are optimistic in the beginning, but after two days they have still found nothing, and the path of the river is leading them northwards, away from their goal. 

On the second day of tracking the river, they spot a small party of Bedouin men traveling southeast over a ridge. Yusuf signals to Nicolo to come back down into the shadow with him, and they have another discussion. 

“I think it would be best if we show ourselves,” Yusuf explains. “They are known to be welcoming to strangers, on the whole, and they will be able to correct our course if we have gone too far astray.” 

“But,” Nicolo says, reading the unspoken caveat from Yusuf’s expression. 

“But we cannot be sure of that, no,” Yusuf admits. “Still, if they are friendly, they will know where to find water.”

“We can follow the river path,” Nicolo argues. 

“The track of the river leads north and yet grows no clearer, Nicolo,” Yusuf says firmly. “We should turn back and seek their aid.” 

“It may yet… we may be close….I don’t know…” Nicolo trails off, looking doubtful, emotions warring on his face. He has not yet learned how to conceal them. Yusuf knows that Nicolo is trusting by nature, and wants to stay that way, but by now he has died so many times by strange hands that the trust is beginning to waver. And his trust has never been particularly strong for the people in this part of the world in any case, nor do they trust him in return, which is no less than he deserves. Still, of the two of them, Nicolo will be in more danger from almost anyone they meet in this land, although by now each of them knows that they share the same fate no matter what happens. 

When Yusuf looks into Nicolo’s eyes, he finds them beseeching him to make the decision for them. But something in Yusuf hesitates. 

“We will go to them only if you wish to go,” he says softly. 

Nicolo breathes out slowly. “Alright,” he says. “I think we should keep following the river.”

Yusuf knows this is the wrong decision, but says nothing. 

***

That night, Nicolo dreams of the two women. He sees them bedding together in their tent. It is not the first time that he has seen it and he knows Yusuf has seen it too. Watching the women arouses a great roiling confusion in Nicolo, and a bizarre, helpless fear that they can see him, that somehow they know he’s the same. He wakes with small cry of shame and displeasure, almost flinching away from Yusuf’s gentle hands on his shoulders. 

“What was it?” Yusuf asks. Nicolo’s mouth twists, and he is breathing hard through his nose, looking away. 

“The two women were together. In that way. Again,” he says finally. 

“Did you see where they were?” Yusuf asks, hands still warm on Nicolo’s body, soothing and anchoring him. 

“No. In a tent. I couldn’t see anything. It was night time. I don’t know where they are.” he says, feeling foolish for not volunteering this obviously more important information earlier. 

Yusuf sighs. “I wish we knew what their intentions were,” he says. 

“Do you think it is wrong,” Nicolo asks in a flat voice, studying his own fingers carefully holding the edge of the thin shawl he sleeps under. He is not shrugging off Yusuf’s hands, but he does not look at him. Yusuf knows what he is asking. 

“I don’t know,” Yusuf says, and pulls his hands away. 

***

The river is dry at the wellspring. 

Even the tufts of grass around it are faded and tan. Nothing has been fresh and alive here for years. Yusuf sighs, and does not know what to say. Nicolo is crouching down, looking at the ground in anger and disbelief. 

“We should retrace our steps back now,” Yusuf says. 

Nicolo looks darkly at him, but he is really only angry with himself. It does not take one hundred and eighty years with him to work that out. He wishes he would have trusted his instincts, not been ruled by fear. Now fear has exacted its price. He knows Yusuf knew it was a mistake to even try, after two days. He is filled with self doubt, again, as always. 

“We will run out of water soon,” Nicolo says, not moving at all, stuck in his misery. 

“We will manage,” Yusuf says. 

“I know we will survive, Yusuf,” Nicolo says furiously, “it is only that being in the desert without any way to get water is not the very best plan I have ever heard in my life.” 

“Unfortunately for us, it’s the only plan we have,” Yusuf says, setting his eyes to the horizon, not wanting to look at Nicolo.

“Well I don’t know, why don’t you pray to your god and I’ll pray to mine, and maybe one of them will deliver one of us from this nightmare,” Nicolo says sharply. Sometimes he gets like this, angry and confused, and he sets this gulf between them once more. Yusuf does not dignify this outburst with a response. 

After a few moments, Nicolo mutters, “Sorry.” Yusuf nods his head in acceptance, picks himself up and turns towards the passage south again. 

“Doesn’t it _bother you_?” Nicolo asks suddenly, now seemingly reincensed by Yusuf’s forgiveness. 

“No, Nicolo, you are only bothering yourself,” he says, beginning to walk back along the river path. 

“Oh, I am so glad,” Nicolo says sourly, kicking at the sand a little as he walks alongside him, a futile, aborted movement. “I will be here worrying about consorting with the enemy for another one hundred and eighty years all by myself then.”

“If that is what you like,” Yusuf says mildly. Nicolo’s hands tense up, a gesture that even sixty years ago would have preceded violence in this context, but he says nothing. Yusuf knows Nicolo is struggling with it badly, and he has not seen Nicolo pray in a long time. He often feels Nicolo’s eyes on him when he prays by himself, no matter how subtly he does it. They walk in silence for a while. 

“Why doesn’t it bother you, then,” Nicolo asks eventually, sullen and almost sounding petulant. But in these last ten years or so they’ve been down this particular theological road before, and they both already know what Yusuf is going to say. 

“There is one God, Nico, it is the same God,” Yusuf says, just like the last time. 

Nicolo sets his mouth in a line. 

“I know it,” Yusuf presses.

“You don’t know it,” Nicolo says unhappily. 

“I feel it, then,” Yusuf offers, sensing Nico’s emotion, but now Nicolo is warming up to the argument.

“Then why do the holy books contradict one another? And how can it be that one says Jesus is only a prophet, denies the resurrection? Why are there many religions fighting and killing over this one perfect all-encompassing God then, Yusuf, each one saying to pray this way or that, with clerics on both sides handing down doctrines and edicts saying that the other worships at an altar of lies?” 

“Because of men, Nicolo. It is men who seek excuses for power and violence, not God.” 

“A fine thing to say of what we fought and died for,” Nicolo retorts, the shadow of a sneer on his face, and old muscle memory from years ago when this argument was far more vicious. Yusuf sighs.

“That was almost two hundred years ago, Nicolo,” And they have been having some version of this argument every year since, but he does not say it. He does not need to say it. 

“So you would not fight for God today, if you could?” 

“I would fight for God today,” Yusuf says, slowly, considering his words, “and I do not think that will change. But I think God is in everything, everyone. Every life is God’s life. You cannot truly still believe that fighting for God means the endless reconquest of a few ancient cities? Do you believe that God intends the Holy Land to be a place where his people can never find peace or rest?”

“Do not assume that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword,” Nicolo quotes, standing a little straighter, looking suddenly aloof in the high collar of his tunic. 

“A sword against whom? Women and children? Men who do you no wrong in far away lands, who believe almost as you do, but just not quite?” Yusuf growls in frustration, rounding on Nicolo, “Tell me, is that what the son of Mary says in your books? To kill and maim and run through in vengeance anyone who speaks differently, who loves God differently? To show them no tolerance or mercy? Because I am searching my memory and my heart, and I promise you this, that is not what he says in ours.” 

Nicolo is staring at him almost in wonder, almost slack-jawed, and there is something naked and unguarded in his eyes. 

“How can you be sure,” he says, almost in a whisper, not quite a question, though it seems like he is not arguing anymore. 

“I’m not sure. I do not think I need to be sure of things anymore,” Yusuf says gently. 

“But don’t you miss it? The certainty?” 

“A little,” Yusuf admits, “But I would not ask for it back now, not even if I thought I could have it. Would you?” 

There is a long pause. 

“No.” Nicolo concedes, and Yusuf can tell that it costs him something to do so. “I would not.” 

***

The water runs out. 

The dreams of the women are now so vivid they feel transported by them, and on nights when they both dream, they sometimes lose track of what is real. Tonight there is no moon, and they both jolt awake at the same time, blindly groping for each other in the dark. 

“What did you see?” “What did you see?” their questions mingle as they grab each other’s hands and gasp for breath. 

“They are far south of Aleppo,” — Nicolo says quickly, trying to be helpful this time — 

—“I think Damascus, already,” — Yusuf interjects — 

“No, not yet, it cannot be, you know that, think of the distance, I think they said they are going towards Damascus,—“ 

“But they must be far south already, judging by the climate, I think they are in — “ 

“Homs!” Nicolo shouts, triumphantly, at the same time as Yusuf cries “Homs, I saw a flash of the city, yes!” 

They look at each other excitedly, still gripping each other’s tunics. Suddenly, they realize what they are saying, and the wind goes out of the both of them. 

“Then they are close,” Nicolo says, shoulders slumping.

“Not too close,” Yusuf manages, though he too looks deflated. “It is a long way even from Homs to Damascus, and we must be far south of that ourselves by now, I think. Maybe even south of Bosra.” 

“Maybe,” Nicolo tries to agree, but cannot quite get there, for in truth he himself has no idea where they are. He is completely reliant on Yusuf for that. The thought makes his heart clench. Still: “We do not know that they mean us ill, in any case, we cannot assume,” he adds plaintively, smoothing the crease of Yusuf’s tunic under his hand. 

Yusuf breathes out a sigh at that, and looks at him so tenderly that it catches Nico’s breath. 

“You’re right,” Yusuf says, and though he looks tired, his eyes are shining. “You’re right.” 

***

It is four days now since they had water.

Nicolo’s throat is so parched he cannot even properly complain about it. He does not think Yusuf feels any different, but knows that because this is Nicolo’s fault Yusuf would not complain even if he could. 

They trudge on in silence. They are getting slower every day. If they can find a rocky outcrop around sunset, they sleep in the open, too tired to pitch the makeshift tent. Yet even as they grow weaker, sometimes at night they still find no rest. 

Yusuf wants to say something into those long sleepless silences, but he can find nothing to say.

***

Two days later they both collapse and die of thirst, then come gasping back to life lying next to one another on the ground, coughing out sand and reeling in the heat. Nicolo coughs so hard his whole body shakes, and it starts to sound like sobbing, and with his barely-working arms Yusuf reaches out and touches him first on the forearm, then on the shoulder. Nicolo grips Yusuf’s hand in his own, holding it against himself, breathing hard, rolling towards him and clinging to him for a moment, and then away again onto his back leaving Yusuf’s arm outstretched between them. 

Things are always raw between them when they come back to life. Dying and being born together makes them feel like babies, like brothers, like twins. It takes minutes and sometimes hours to grow back into their old habits, and every time it happens, the people they were taught to be return a little less. Sometimes it feels good. Other times it scares them. They never know which it will be. 

Suddenly Nicolo grabs Yusuf’s arm and starts to laugh, but it doesn’t sound very good to Yusuf’s ears. 

“What’s wrong?” Yusuf rasps out with effort, his mouth feeling like sandpaper.

“Are we even men anymore, Yusuf?” Nicolo asks, turning his head to look at Yusuf across the sand. His eyes are wild. “What are we now?” 

Yusuf works his mouth a little before sitting up and speaking again, “I think we are, as much as anyone is,” he says. 

“I don’t think so,” Nicolo says, releasing his grip on Yusuf’s arm. “A man dies once and once only. I do not think we have been men for a very long time.”

“Maybe, but…” Yusuf trails off and says nothing for a moment. 

“Do you think….” Nicolo trails off too, and then when he speaks again, his voice sounds terrible, “Do you think God is rejecting us? Is that why we cannot die?” 

“No!” Yusuf cries, horrified. “Nicolo, how can you say that?” 

“Well, you tell me then! What is this? Why is this happening?” Nicolo sounds angry, and scared, and Yusuf wonders, not for the first time, whether Nicolo has lost his mind. Or whether he himself has lost his mind, wandering the desert with this Christian whose fate seems irrevocably bound to his because for years on end the only thing either of them has known for sure was that they alone could not die. Sometimes that is still all he knows. But sometimes he knows more, much more, more than he ever has. 

Looking away into the distance, very softly, Yusuf begins to recite the verse that comes to him as best he can remember it: 

“I died to the mineral state and became a plant; I died to the  
vegetable state and reached animality;

I died to the animal state and became a man; then what should I  
fear? -- _I have never become less from dying_.”

Nicolo has not heard this one before. He feels himself shiver all over and he does not know why. He tries to keep a grip on himself. “More of the Persian’s verses, again, about the unity of God and this moment and everything,” he says, trying to sound dismissive, but as he speaks Yusuf turns to look at him and his brown eyes are so deep and dark that Nicolo can’t hold onto himself and his voice comes out with a note of wanting, of searching, of reaching for something.

“Do you want to hear the rest?” Yusuf asks gently. 

“Yes,” Nicolo breathes, unable to look away, and here he is even leaning in, swaying towards Yusuf, drawn in like the tide. Yusuf brings his hand up to cradle Nicolo’s cheek. Nicolo closes his eyes, and presses his face into Yusuf’s palm, and when Yusuf speaks again his voice is very close, 

“At the next charge forward I will die to human nature, so that I  
may lift up my head and wings and soar among the angels.

And I must also jump from the river of the state of the angel:  
"Everything perishes except His Face."

Once again I will become sacrificed from the state of the  
angel; I will become that which cannot come into the  
imagination.” —

—Yusuf takes a shuddering breath, and Nicolo opens his eyes to see that they are almost touching noses now, and his hands go to Yusuf’s face before he really knows what he’s doing, cradling Yusuf’s face in return, and Yusuf’s voice lowers to a murmur even though they are the only ones here for miles —

“Then I will become non-existent; non-existence says to me in tones like an organ,  
“Truly to Him is our return”.”

Yusuf breathes out, sounding awed, and the feeling of his breath and the sound of his voice are as overwhelming as the words themselves, and Nicolo feels like he’s been set on fire, or drowned, or stuck full of arrows after all—

“So we have not been cast aside,” he whispers, staring into Yusuf’s eyes, full of wonder. “And this is not a curse.”

“I receive it as a gift,” Yusuf whispers back, smiling at him, his eyes crinkling in the corners. Nicolo feels overwhelmed with gratitude and all of a sudden from the deepest part of himself he knows what to do and then he does it: pulling Yusuf in and kissing him softly, and then desperately, and Yusuf is kissing him back, tender and raw and now and everything. 

Yusuf pulls away, briefly touching Nicolo’s mouth with gentle fingertips, his eyes overflowing with an emotion Nicolo cannot name. He squares his shoulders and gets up, looking to the west. 

“Come,” he says, stretching out his hand, “we need to find water.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This has a part 2. (Obviously, since they are not in the Valley of the Moon yet, and they need to get there). It is coming….. soonish... I hope. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and stay safe out there everyone.


End file.
